


To Boldly Go

by neck_mole



Series: Carry On Countdown 2018 [7]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookshop, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Comic Book Shop, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Nerdiness, POV Alternating, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 09:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16889619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neck_mole/pseuds/neck_mole
Summary: It’s starting to dawn on me that this tit almost definitely does not have any sense of self preservation, nor does he stop to think about trust. Never have I seen somebody so eagerly run up a stranger’s stairs at a single motion, but yet, here he is. Doing exactly that.-A Star Trek nerd meets a comic book shop employee, and the rest is history.





	To Boldly Go

**Author's Note:**

> Carry On Countdown 2018 Day 12: In A Bookshop
> 
> hehe i took liberties again and did a comic bookshop. which like. is a bookshop. sorta. just go with it.

**SIMON**

 

He comes in every other Tuesday.

 

Most times, he just wanders around and looks over some figures and the occasional comic book, but there’s always a common theme; sci-fi. More specifically, Star Trek, with the occasional other indistinguishable, general sci-fi thrown in the middle. Once,  _ once _ he picked up a box for a Legolas figure, to which he put down after a minute or two of inspection.

 

At first, I’d wondered what he was doing in here. Penn and I had a set list of theories, which seemed to get more unbelievable as they went on.

 

“He’s probably just a reseller, Si. Collects them to sell online, something like that,” she sighed as I picked at her container of General Tso’s after polishing off my own. “Plenty of posh arseholes do that; it’s quick money with minimal effort.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “That’s  _ boring _ . I’d like to think that he’s somehow connected to a cast member so he collects them for memorabilia.”

 

“Why would he collect it if the cast member could just get it for him?”

 

“There’s no room for logic in my fantasy, Penn.”

 

She just stared at me, eyes tired and absolutely defeated. “If it’s fantasy, then you’ve  _ got _ to have something more creative?”

 

That’s a challenge I could actually face. “Fine,” I huff, “what if he’s the next villain to the series? Buyin’ them up to feed his gigantic ego? He  _ looks _ like some knob who’d be the handsome villain in a film; he looks like a Bond villain, if they were younger.

 

Eventually, we settled on “Reseller”, which actually ended up being wrong, since I opened my mouth once and actually asked “So how much do you sell these for”, which, honestly, is the worst thing I’ve said to him.

 

Actually, it’s the only thing I’ve said to him besides “Hi”, “Is this all?”, his total, and “Have a good day”.

 

He bristled at it, staring at me with shocked eyes that turned bitter soon as his lip curled up. “I don’t  _ resell _ these,” he spat, raking his eyes over me as he took the bag. He then turned and left without another word, not even relenting his usual nod of goodbye. Nothing.

 

I was a tad shocked to see him actually come back after that, but nevertheless, he did. Under absolutely mysterious circumstances, he didn’t stop coming. I wholeheartedly expected him to stop showing up, but he didn’t.

 

It’s quite regular visits too; middle of the day, wearing a particularly dramatic navy peacoat with the collar turned up to hide most of his face and blackened sunglasses. He’s trying to hard to hide himself that it draws  _ more _ attention. Nearly feels like he’s some celebrity trying to not seem like he’s coming into a dinky little comics shop to pick up Star Trek collectibles, or that someone’s out to get him for stopping by. With his post accent, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s some ridiculously high level government official, or a socialite roaming around.

 

With the way he buys expensive shit, it would actually make  _ sense. _

 

Which, still, means I should keep my mouth shut and just let him go about his rich business, but my mouth's always open anyway. “What do you do for a living?” I peep up.

 

It’s the first time I’ve said anything besides the usual in at least three visits, so of course he’s startled by the initial comment, but it turns to his usual brooding stare. “What’s it to you?” he sneers, handing his card over. It sheens in the light, glittering a bit. I swallow down, trying to work a friendly response.

 

“I mean, you come in pretty regularly, and sometimes you buy a couple hundred pounds worth of shit. Seems like you’ve got a bit of money to be splurging, and I guess… I’m curious..?”

 

He stares wordlessly, eyebrows knit together and I’m absolutely sure I cocked it up now. That is, up until he opens his mouth an actually answers. “I’m a banker,” he says, shifting his weight. “I work uptown; usually deal with stocks and loans.”

 

My eyes stay down as he talks, bagging his figures carefully and working out his transaction. When I do raise them, though, he’s uncharacteristically soft with his head turned towards the window and gaze set on something out there. He’s silent, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. It makes me all soft inside, a type of soft that I don’t fully understand.

 

“That’s cool,” I say with as warm of a voice as I can muster, reaching across the counter to hand the bags off.

 

The scoff he lets off tells me that it probably isn’t. “Is it, though?” he mocks, cocking a brow to me and making my gut twist again. Makes me nauseous in such a weird way; like I want him to be nice to me, or at least some resemblance of niceties between us.

 

“Yeah,” I force on. If one of us is going to be nice, at least, I suppose it’ll be me. “I mean, it’s nice that you haven’t stopped caring about shit that makes you happy. Seems like when people get into that sort of work, they stop caring about what makes them happy.”

 

I really wish he had an expression beyond blank and pensive. Right now, it’s still stuck on the former. He just huffs and nods in agreement, pursing his lips as if he’s preparing to actually say something decent back before deciding against it. “I’d best be off.” And with that, he gives his typical head nod then leaves me like this. Like we weren’t bordering between a conversation; a bloody breakthrough with this.

 

I have no right to be disappointed because he’s not obligated to somewhat care, but shit, I am. I just want him to stay maybe a minute longer; maybe actually talk with me for once. If not a necessity, but a casually expected social interaction. I’m nice enough, dammit.

 

That’s it. That’s my mission; to make him actually talk to me, rather than just pop in and pop out. All my other regulars actually talk to me, but this git just tries to run off and avoid me. Well, not anymore. I won’t let him try to sneak away again; I’ll crack his fucking shell. I’m a  _ nice _ person, therefore people should  _ like _ me. Sounds fake to not like me, realistically.

 

So when he comes in again two weeks later, I’m more chipper than usual, a grin plastered across my face as he steps in. “Half past noon on the nose per usual, huh?” After two weeks of thinking, I’ve realized it’s probably his lunch break. The foot traffic doesn’t typically start up here until after schools let out in the afternoon. Hell, we don’t open on weekdays until about 11, except when students are on breaks. We stay open late for the groups that meet, though.

 

Somewhat like weeks ago, he gives me a startled look. It’s me going off script, and I don’t think he really likes that. “I… yes. You’re not incorrect.”

 

Wrinkling my nose a bit, I grin to him. “A new figure came in today; it’s handmade and modeled off the most recent film Spock. Didn’t even put it in the case yet, if you want to see that?”

 

With that, he perks up (although it doesn’t really show on his face) and nods, stepping up to the counter.  _ I’ve got him now, _ I think.

 

I excuse myself to the back room and pull out an in-box statue. It’s no bigger than two feet, but the details are impeccable. Right up his alley.

 

As he scans over it, box resting on the glass counter, I take my first shot at conversation. “So, Star Trek?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why Star Trek?”

 

His head lift to me briefly, eyes catching mine for a moment before the slowly lower back down wordlessly. Great.

 

“You know,” I start again, licking my lips subtly as I lean slightly forward on the counter. “You don’t have to hide in here; those sunglasses aren’t fooling anybody, especially indoors. And it’s cool to collect shit.”

 

It’s silent between us for a minute and I can see that he’s studying me, trying to figure out whether or not to actually go through with anything before slowly lifting up his glasses. They perch on his hairline, stands of his hair sweeping back with it.

 

For the first time, I’m seeing them in actual color.

 

For the first time, I realize they’re grey.

 

It sort of knocks the wind from me. Hell, of course he was gorgeous before, but the subtle contrast of his eyes to his skin makes my knees a bit wobbly. It’s like he has the face for fucking Vogue or something, especially being all sharp like that.

 

And now I’m just staring at him,  _ not talking _ , probably with a gaping jaw as he just doesn’t answer. I look like a rightful idiot.

 

It takes a minute for me to find my decency again. “See,” I say, probably a bit quieter than I’d like. “Nothing to hide.” A smile pushes to my cheeks, and I’m hoping that I’m not actually blushing because that’d be more than embarrassing.

 

A smirk plays at his lips as his chin tips up. “Hm.” And that’s it. That’s all he gives me.

 

At least it’s progress.

 

We grin at each other somewhat awkwardly before he lowers his chin again, inspecting the figure. A few strands fall back into his face, one right down the middle. It’s the one falling from his widow’s peak.

 

“How much?” he asks, lifting up once more and leveling his gaze at me and shit, I feel weak again.

 

I tell him. Weakly, but I do tell him. My hands plant on the countertop, supporting me up as I give him a little smile. “I think it’s worth the splurge. Can’t say I’ll keep it in the back, though; manager tells me we have to keep product rolling.”

 

He’s a bit displeased with that, shifting his shoulders as I can see his neck bob. “Fine.” His lips twitch as he speaks. “I’ll take it.”

 

I grin and nod, starting to pack it away into one of the bags as he pulls his wallet out. “You know,” I begin, flicking the paper bag open before sliding the figure’s box inside. “I’ve never actually seen the show or the movies.”

 

“Really?” He looks quizzical, as in genuinely,  _ actually _ curious. The third ever emotion I’ve seen him display. “Never even went past it on the telly?”

 

I shrug, taking his card and sliding it through. “No, not really. I mean, I’ve seen adverts for it, but never really got onto that boat. I’ve always been more action heros. You know, big muscles, big fight scenes, in your face sort of shit. Was easy to idealize being that as a kid.”

 

He doesn’t respond to that, though. He scans over me, fully taking off his glasses now, taking the moment to pull them from his head, fold them, them tuck them into his breast pocket. “I have a collection of merchandise, and access to all shows and films. And the books, for that matter.”

 

I can’t help but say “Couldn’t guess”. In all seriousness, I probably shouldn’t have, but I did anyway.

 

He flinches at that, squinting and checking his watch. Maybe he is in a rush... “Look,” he starts, taking his card back, signing the paper with a flourish of the pen. “Do you want to see them?”

 

He’s stuffing his card back hastily, grabbing the bag with one hand and tucking the other away. I stare, a little dazed by the fact that he’s talking in somewhat full sentences to me. “I… uh… yes, yeah, sure.”

 

He turns over the receipt, scribbling something down. “When do you get out?”

 

“Um…” Suddenly, I have no schedule. Maybe I live here? Who knows. I forget everything when I look at him. “Six--seven. I get off at seven.”

 

“Right, well I’ll be by at seven, then. You can come by to my flat and I’ll introduce you to it.” As he shoves the receipt across the counter, he keeps a downcasted gaze. I just nod.

 

He nods back to me, then leaves, and that’s that.

 

That  _ actually _ happened. As in, I didn’t dream it up, for once and I've actually got his number and name on the receipt to prove for it.  _ Baz _ .

 

I don’t quite know what it means and as to  _ why _ he invited me to his flat, but all I know is I’ve got a knot in my gut and I can’t stop smiling when he leaves.

 

Seven o’clock it is.

 

**BAZ**

 

I don’t know why I did that.

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . Why did I do that?

 

I go off and lose my composure, that’s what I do. I can’t hold it in for the cute shop employee.

 

Scratch that, it isn’t just me losing my composure. Losing my composure was a few weeks ago when I told him what I do for a living. This? This was insanity. I actually asked him to come to my flat. He barely knows me, I barely know him beyond his name (and now the fact that he likes Superheros), but here I am, inviting him to my  _ flat _ . Either I’m bonkers or living in an alternate universe where that’s a genuinely okay thing to do, because that was  _ not _ what I should be doing.

 

It’s even more unbelievable that he actually said yes. I thought for sure that he’d laugh at me and say something about a girlfriend or other, but instead he said yes.

 

Well, sort of. A nod is a yes in this situation. It’s not a  _ no _ , so I suppose it’ll be appropriate for me to go through with what I said I’d do.

 

Actually, it might be a little inappropriate if I don’t, seeing as I said I would.

 

So, here I am. Doing  _ that _ . Getting out of work and stressing in my car for an hour before I go to pick him up.

 

Trying to look cool, I park out front and step out, waiting leaning up against the car with crossed arms and a sideways glance. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not I actually come off as cool, or rather a stalking maniac. I’m not quite sure if it matters anymore, since he actually  _ agreed _ to do this (whatever this is).

 

The shop’s door dings, drawing my eyes up to catch Simon’s. He’s all smiles, his nametag still pinned to his chest and hair swept away from his eyes. As he steps forward, he’s fiddling with his sleeves. “Hey--hi,” he says quickly, glancing down at my car before his eyes shoot back to me. It’s fucking adorable.

 

“Ready to go?” I let out, cocking a brow to him. I left off my glasses this time, actually letting him see me. Feels a bit cruel to not to, given that he willed them off me earlier.

 

He just nods, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Um, would you want to get dinner, first?” he blurts out, blinking before shaking his head. “Or… fuck, maybe something else. We don’t have to, I just thought…”

 

It’s utterly unfair. He goes from suave to a bumbling idiot within the course of a day.

 

“We can order in, if you want.” I swing open the car door for him, stepping aside and staying there holding it as he slides in. I don’t want to sound  _ too _ desperate, but in all honesty? I sort of am. I hate to admit it, but this feels ridiculously unreal. I stop in to satisfy my weird crush, and  _ somehow _ he doesn’t think I’m the scum of the Earth? Sounds unrealistic.

 

As I round the car, I can feel his eyes following my movements, catching mine as I’m lowering into my seat. “I’d like that--ordering in, that is.”

 

The car ride to my flat is relatively quiet. He doesn’t make a move to turn on the radio, but instead stares out the window with his hands drawn to his lap in silence. I wish I knew what was in his mind; I wish I could just turn to him and simply ask. Instead, I stay silent, hands gripping the wheel and eyes locked forward.

 

The short drive feels like a century long.

 

When we finally pull up, though, he’s got an odd look on his face, bordering from smirking and surprised. I can’t help but throw him back a raised brow.

 

“It’s just…” he starts, staring up at the rising levels of my flat. “It’s ridiculously posh. I didn’t doubt that you have money, but  _ shit _ .”

 

I push away the smirk tugging at my lips. We step out, him bounding towards the door as I grab my case and lock up. In a fluid motion, I follow him up the stairs, unlock the door, and wave him inside. The first few steps are hesitant as he disappears into the small hallway, but after I second I hear him mumble something to himself. “Holy shit.”

 

My keys rattle as they hit the bowl, eyes following Snow as he steps around. “Better than my shit flat.” His hands grip the tattered, used straps of his backpack as he glances back to me. “Where the hell do you keep all the collectibles.”

 

Immediately, I freeze. How do I word this without coming off as a creep? “Come upstairs,” I say, jerking my head in a nod towards the staircase.

 

It’s starting to dawn on me that this tit almost definitely does not have any sense of self preservation, nor does he stop to think about trust. Never have I seen somebody so eagerly run up a stranger’s stairs at a single motion, but yet, here he is. Doing exactly that. 

 

I follow him wordlessly, stepping ahead at the top of the flight and opening my office door for him. Inside, there’s a bookshelf, stacked full of figures, a few in-box, a few set up for display, and various memorabilia. He gawks at it, blinking and turning towards me after a second. “So you’re no joke?”

 

“Did you think I would be?” My back hits the end of the door, leaning casually as it sways a tad. Snow seems just slightly taken aback, sweeping hair from his forehead and tugging it in his fist.

 

“Not particularly, no. I just… hadn’t fully imagined this. It’s absolutely wicked.”

 

My lip twitches to the side, and this time, I let it.

 

What I don’t let, though, is myself to answer. I just stare, a smile on my face as Snow’s flushes and turns away. Silently, he scans over what I’ve got, stepping around to get the full effect. It takes minutes, leaving me plenty of time to admire him before he catches me in the act.

 

With a blush and a turn of the head, he clears his throat and tugs at his sleeve. “I’d love it if you’d show me the first episode…”

 

_ Oh, right _ . I nod my head back downstairs, taking the lead and setting up my Netflix, flicking over my list and landing on Star Trek, the original series. After hitting it on, I pause it and drag out my mobile. “What should I order.”

 

He drops his bag by his feet, shrugging and sitting back. (More like sprawling).

 

“That isn’t an answer.”

 

“I’m just… not picky.”

 

I stare at him for a minute, trying to control my deep hatred for those like him who don’t care to answer before exhaling and dialing for pizza.

 

His hand reaches across and pokes the play button on the remote the moment I’ve hung up, glancing up at me with wide eyes and an innocent grin before turning back towards the telly.

 

At first, he’s completely clueless.

 

“Wait, that isn’t Kirk, is it?”

 

“No it isn’t. Shut up.”

 

“No, but wait, is Kirk not in the first season or something?”

 

“No, he is. Just watch, it’s important.”

 

“But-”

 

He stops with a toss of my pointed glare, to which he responds by rolling his eyes defiantly before sitting back with crossed arms.

 

I get up halfway through, greeting the delivery man and collecting the pizza before joining Snow again.

 

He stays mostly silent through the episode, occupied mostly by food. When I open my mouth to ask if he wants to watch the next, though, he just hits the automatic play button for the episode.

 

I don’t even try to trick myself into hiding my smile.

 

“ _ There’s _ Kirk!” He exclaims, grinning and seeming awfully proud of himself. “ _ Knew _ he’d be in.”

 

Without really thinking about it, I let out a, “You sort of look like him.” Which, in hindsight, doesn’t sound like a brilliant idea.

 

He turns his head to me, though, and blinks. “What, ridiculously handsome?” He half jokes, face becoming a sort of half-smile as he wipes his lips with a paper napkin.

 

Fucking hell, if looks could kill, he’d be wanted.

 

“I said sort of.” Not quite an intelligent retaliation, but a solid one nonetheless.

 

Despite that, he grins and presses on. “Do you think I’m handsome, Baz?”

 

I’m deathly silent. Shit.

 

His hand spans across the deep grey seats of my couch, first resting on the remote and hitting pause. When I think I might be clear, he drops the remote and rests his hand on my arm. I wish I could pull it away, or just pull him closer.

 

“Do you?”

 

“I can’t lie and say no.” I’m sounding a bit harsher than I’d expect, but he’s got a look in his eyes that’s driving me mad, and I can’t help but wonder what his lips taste like.

 

Cut short in thought, my mind goes all static-y the second his mouth presses to mine. At first, it’s brief, our lips brushing for a split second before he retracts and eyes me up curiously.

 

I’m flushed up like a madman, staring at him with glassy eyes and a slightly hanging jaw for a moment’s time, thinking of how one would properly react. But, eventually, all that flies out the window when I crash back into him, hands racing into his hair and yanking him into a kiss. He doesn’t refuse in the slightest, lips upturned into a funny smile as he snogs me back, resting his hands onto my hips.

 

I’ve got my answer, then. He tastes just like he looks; like something I never want to let go of.


End file.
